


Third-Degree Burn

by abrandnewboom



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Imprisonment, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrandnewboom/pseuds/abrandnewboom
Summary: Yassen Gregorovich throws himself in front of Alex Rider and directly into the fire when he disobeys a voyeur with a predilection for aggressively motivating physical connections between his prisoners.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	Third-Degree Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capeofstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeofstorm/gifts).



> PLEASE MIND THE TAGS!!!!! This may truly be too rich for your blood. 😳

It was a bad situation, and he should have calculated, planned for the possibility. 

Yassen Gregorovich wouldn't admit it, but it was one Alex Rider who had thrown him off his game. Never mind the three years he'd spent recouping his losses, nursing his wounded pride and rebuilding his reputation. 

Naturally, as soon as he'd stepped back into taking up contracts again, he'd managed to stumble across the beautiful, grown up Rider boy, once again.

"You, again."

If the kid was surprised, he'd finally learnt to hide it.

Yassen nodded to him in greeting. Still no firearms, he noted, wavering between concerned anger and a strange sense of propriety. At least they weren't sending him out to kill yet. Not explicitly. 

"So, are you finally going to kill me?" Alex asked him.

"You know I don't kill children, Alex."

Alex gifted him a horrible pasted-on grimace of a grin. "Oh, I'm not a child anymore, Mr. Gregorovich."

And Yassen understood the extent of what Alex had lost in his absence. 

And still, he could not shoot him.

"Oh dear, comrades," Popov said, mournfully, following them in switching to accented English.

Popov was a distinguished-looking older Russian man who had hired Yassen two months ago. He ran the streets this side of Kursk, an achievement that was nothing to sniff at.

Barely a week ago he’d taken a liking to Alex, a pretty young spy planted in his path on the street. Alex was pretending to be a naive German student, hopelessly lost on University exchange. Oh, he was so terribly grateful for Popov’s kindness.

Yassen wished he could sneer at the man’s foolishness. But Alex really was a special case. 

"This looks to be a stalemate,” Popov said, shaking his head. “Whatever shall I do with the two of you?"

They stood together then, instinctively, and Alex had struck down the first of the twenty grunts the old pervert threw at them. 

Yassen cleared a handful at close range with the bullets left in his clip before he had to duck and reload, but it seemed that fate was pulling the strings again. 

Barely cognisant of his own actions, Yassen found himself stepping out of his defensive crouch to shield the boy from the next wave. 

Once more, he took a blow meant for Alex.

+++

When Yassen stirred next he found himself laid out in the same cells into which he had escorted countless prisoners.

This one had been scrubbed clean since his last visit, but he could almost see the blood and smell the odour that would have polluted it mere hours before. 

The metal walls were spotless but warped, and most importantly: cold. 

For now. 

Yassen had unloaded the electrical equipment that heated them himself.

Alex was crumpled against his side, and they were both terribly, conspicuously, naked.

Yassen knew this game.

As soon as Alex stirred, the floor came alive, searing his shoulder blades and the backs of his thighs. 

The pain sent him skittling instinctively into Yassen's waiting arms. Yassen's hands descended, the pain stopped. 

Alex looked down at their bare skin and immediately got the picture.

"Fine. Get on with it,” he muttered.

Yassen reached down slowly nonetheless, grasping at his firm posterior, cupping him in splayed palms. 

Alex’s lip curled at the presumptuous manhandling, but kept his complaints under his breath.

Yassen lifted him up and away from the metal floor, bracing his own back against the wall of their cell. Alex's hissed verbal abuse came to be pressed against Yassen's neck, just audible, even as his long legs curled to wrap around the assassin's waist.

“I can’t believe this.” Alex swore under his breath. He wriggled a little, resistant to Yassen’s intimate grip. 

A current ran across the floor and crackled against Yassen’s feet. Alex caught the tail end of the shock through Yassen’s skin and jerked away with a yelp.

“Stay quiet.” Yassen whispered through gritted teeth.

Yassen spread one hand under his arse, steadily holding him in place, even as Alex’s legs flexed and his heels dug into the backs of Yassen’s own steady thighs. He balanced Alex as easily as if he were still that spindly youth he’d met years before. 

Yassen held him in place, guiding Alex's tense arms around his neck.

"Hold on to me,” he instructed, the steel in his voice barely covering up the arousal.

He could feel Alex's barely interested cock pressing against his belly. His own was high and hard, trapped between Alex's legs. 

Alex shuddered involuntarily, a stress reaction that only further slicked Yassen’s precome over the velvety softness of Alex’s balls. The blunt head slipped easily into the cleft of his buttocks.

Alex was breathing hard against his neck, open mouthed, tense, locked up down the entire length of his spine. 

He was tanned a golden brown and lightly freckled all over. It just about fooled Yassen's eyes into thinking his mere touch would conjure up the heat of a balmy day on the French coast. 

Yassen, by contrast, knew he was as white as the Kursk winter outside from head to feet. The only exceptions were his orange freckled shoulders and the puckered pink that characterised the odd lump of scar tissue.

A strange picture for Popov, but Popov was a strange man, Yassen supposed.

Alex had been tall for his fourteen years when Yassen had first encountered him, and he couldn't have grown more than a few centimeters since then. He had the frame of a youth who had come through his adolescent years underfed and neglected. Children, as Yassen had seen in his travels, were anything but resilient.

Yassen doubted Alex had needed to grow up much more than he quickly had within a couple of months at age fourteen. He’d seen more horrors that year than he would see again in the few further years he might enjoy before an untimely death in the field.

What the MI6 had made Alex into - this adult child with a burden of duty and heartache beyond that which most men would ever have to wrestle with - was both permanent and despicable. 

Yassen hated himself for touching him, hated himself for stroking Alex’s flank as he turned him slowly to face away and tipped him onto his knees to prepare him more easily. 

He hated himself for spitting into his palm, hated himself for being so ready to perform on command, hated himself for wanting this broken seventeen year old beneath him, scratching and moaning and responsive in the way that only Alex Rider could be.

Alex flinched in the same way he had when Yassen had shot Sayle, only now it was in response to the intrusion of his wet trigger finger.

“Nnng.” Alex set his teeth against the lean muscle of his own bicep, muffling a shuddering groan. 

The floor pulsed hot, an impatient reminder from Popov that he had very particular tastes.

Yassen, stony faced and unblinking, hitched Alex backwards with an arm around his waist, forcing two fingers deeper. 

If his face softened at the helpless cry Alex made, the boy didn't see it.

Yassen felt Alex tighten around his fingers barely before the warming floor alerted him to the fact that the young spy’s little cock had begun to respond positively. 

It was like Yassen was somehow senseless under these conditions. 

He’d become a lascivious dullard in under twenty minutes, wrapped up in dragging pleasure out of the young spy with deft twists of his fingers when he should be following their taskmaster’s cues. Unwise if Yassen wanted the two of them to live much longer.

Yassen's knees weren't exactly as good as they'd always been. If he was going to finish this task - and he could feel the static tingle in the wall rising every second he let Alex go without further stimulation - he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to penetrate the boy. 

Should he press Alex into the floor or the wall, depriving the watchers of their view, but subjecting the boy to what could well be his first swift, rough buggering from behind? 

Or could he risk having him on his back, legs open, ankles around his ears, exposed for an audience but still - where Alex could at least see the thrusts coming?

Yassen decided for him. He turned Alex onto his back, holding him in position with cool eyes and spreading the boy’s legs. 

Yassen pressed Alex’s knees to his chest before he could voice any objection and began to rub his thick cock against the boy’s tight entrance. 

Alex let out a sob of surprise, nearly kicking the assassin in the face. Yassen ducked it but dialed the pressure back as unobtrusively as he could manage. He wasn’t a complete monster.

Yassen pulled the boy closer to lay pressed practically against his crotch. 

Alex’s flexibility meant that he folded easy, upper body pressing into the metal floor while his lower back arched, exposing his soft pink balls and pucker openly to both Yassen and the cameras above them.

Alex looked down through heavy lidded eyes at his own reddened length, now erect and beaded with moisture on his flat belly. His face coloured immediately, and he turned his head to the side.

"How much more?" he asked, low and thick-tongued. 

Yassen's chest twisted, hearing the hoarse catch of the boy holding back tears. 

Alex’s hands opened and closed repeatedly at his sides, so the assassin reached down and placed them on his shoulders.

He would not lie to Alex.

He said nothing, only urged Alex to splay himself open wide enough that Yassen had room to fit over him and between his legs. He gently guided his cock inside, precome and spit barely easing his way.

Alex bit his lips at first, until the bottom one split, beading with the smallest drop of blood. Alex licked it away automatically, as if he hadn’t noticed the injury.

Yassen felt Alex’s body clamp hot and tight around the head of his cock. He didn’t force Alex to take him any deeper, but Alex bent like a bow, strained upwards to press his forehead into Yassen’s chest.

If he hadn’t been fighting the urge to thrust, he would have been touched by Alex’s gesture of trust, the laying down of his life into the Russian’s bloodied hands.

One of Alex's legs slipped around Yassen's back. His heel was unable to get a real grip. It slid down the length of Yassen’s back and over the tensed musculature of his arse to dangle, toes just brushing the floor. 

Alex broke away from his hiding place in the Russian's chest, the back of his head dropping back to the ground to reveal a face overwhelmed with arousal. 

His lips were swollen with biting, and his eyes were dilated to near blackness.

Yassen slid in another inch, the sudden movement punching a deep gasp out of Alex. He panted back the oxygen, entire body shuddering as it began to accept the thick intruder.

“Good,” Yassen couldn’t help but reassure him in a low voice, even though he knew perfectly well that every whisper was audible through the high quality microphones. “You’re doing well, Alex.” 

Over his years of exile there had been many Alexei. 

All of them imaginary, each one constructed for Yassen to visualize fucking. There was the Alex who sucked him off in the shower with his sharp kitten-soft tongue and small hands. 

There was the obedient Alex who bent readily like a whore over any surface he could deign to think up. 

And there was the Alex who nestled against him at night, snoring softly, exhausted from riding Yassen’s thick girth.

Or at least, these were the Alexi he conjured up. 

These invisible clones didn’t talk often, because neither did Yassen, and he just couldn’t come up with the kind of pithy commentary that characterized the real thing.

But here he was. 

The worst thing about having Alex – the _real_ Alex – beneath him was that this Alex had not come willingly. But he was still a thousand times more beautiful than an imaginary facsimile.

There was a point, lost in hot pleasure, where Yassen forgot that he was ravaging Alex in the hopes of saving them from a torture chamber. 

Perhaps it was the brain protecting itself, or the slow tendrils of madness taking hold, but Yassen reverted to fantasy, and he fucked Alex in the manner he had imagined doing for the past three years.

Yassen pressed him down, flat on his back, and crouched over him. 

Alex seemed almost euphoric under him – he let Yassen spread his legs without question or quip, and the assassin was quick to thrust into him without pause.

He was vicious and relentless with Alex like this and the young spy threw his head back and cried out at more than a few of the deeper plunges.

Yassen spread him further, Alex’s knees knocking against the warm metal floor either side of his strained throat. The fucking became almost brutal. 

Alex’s head rolled back and struck the ground with a low clunk. Louder though, were Alex’s gasps. He was sucking in shallow breaths, losing his place every time Yassen forced himself back into him.

It was long moments before Yassen could seize hold of himself for long enough to realize that Alex had come, warm and wet, between their bodies, the rub of Yassen’s hard belly with every harsh movement having pushed the orgasm out of him.

Yassen pulled back to check his condition. 

There was blood – his thrusts had driven Alex into the ground repetitively, and some of the bolts in the metallic flooring had not been screwed down exactly flush.

But he knew some of Alex’s blood coated Yassen’s cock. He slid a little easier because of it.

Yassen closed his eyes briefly to the sight of Alex being dragged through the pleasure of aftershocks, and then forced himself to open them again. 

It was an insult to Alex, to use him thus, with his eyes shut, as if he were merely some sick old man, getting off on the sensations of a shivering boy beneath him.

No, Yassen was determined to harvest the guilt in every wince and shudder and jerk and every horrendous glistening flash of innocent blood.

His pace still pleasured the boy. 

Alex was clearly so over-stimulated he hadn’t yet registered the injuries Yassen had inflicted upon him.

His body gripped tight around Yassen’s cock, almost as tight as the initial penetration, and when Yassen lifted him to let him slide down his thick length one torturous inch at a time, the evidence of his own violation slicked the way.

Alex had entirely disengaged from the situation, and Yassen did not begrudge it of him. Alex was a tough kid, but he was brittle and wound so tightly. 

Yassen thought vaguely, through the haze of bliss risen from rocking Alex in his lap, the youth entirely filled with the hot flesh of his cock, that once the boy snapped, he’d be nothing more than a rag doll. 

It was disturbing on some level, how much the thought of engineering such destruction fired the pit of his belly, and pulsed anew along his cock.

Alex moaned in pleasure, a sound Yassen hadn’t previously been able to imagine emitting from his mouth, and he dragged his hands up Yassen’s chest. He set the short nails into Yassen’s shoulder blades and weakly bucked his hips. 

Yassen barely caught sight of a fleeting wince. It flooded him with cold guilt and a rush of illicit pleasure.

He came, mouth dry and cock swelling at the sight of Alex beginning to enjoy his abuse. 

He filled the boy well. He’d always come a copious amount, and the clutch of Alex’s battered passage milked every drop out of him.

“Oh,” Alex whimpered, convulsing as the salty fluid flooded him, stinging as it polluted his insides.

Sweat soaked and ragged, Alex clung to Yassen like a drowning man. His hair had fallen across his forehead, hiding his eyes. The long shaggy hanks were almost brown with moisture and stuck up in tufts where Yassen had grasped at them. 

The boy looked well fucked, Yassen had to admit. Alex panted very prettily as he gasped like he’d just been allowed to come up for air for the first time in hours. He was still shaking in overstimulation.

At least, Yassen rationalised - at least he wasn't crying. 

But he was only seventeen, Yassen reminded himself with mental rancor. Ultimatum or not, he'd taken advantage of the boy and he'd enjoyed the most evil aspects of it.

Yassen cupped the back of the boy's head and lifted his whole body into his lap, a mockery of an embrace. 

Alex shivered and unconsciously rode against Yassen’s hips again, eliciting another wave of pleasure.

Yassen narrowed his eyes against the feeling and displayed Alex to the empty room instead, flaunting his softly closed eyes, his thin heaving chest and his limp body, ridden to its adolescent limits.

He pulled his cock free, as careful as he could manage, letting Alex flop back to the floor. He held the boy open, displaying his overstretched hole and the river of pink tinged come that spilled out when he pushed his long fingers back into him.

“Are you happy?” He enquired, letting the bastards see Alex for what he was. 

Beautiful and ruined. 

“Are you satisfied?”

Yassen felt the cell cooling. The panels in the walls creaked, shrinking back into their proper slots.

He waited, silent apart from his own panting and the wounded whines that Alex was making.

After a beat or two the cell door slid open. Yassen dragged himself to his feet, lifting his new charge over his shoulder with care. 

Perhaps Alex would heal in time, perhaps not. 

Freedom always came with a price. The question was only ever whether you were willing to pay for it.


End file.
